


Gold Medal Dreams

by tsukinobara



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: I spent way too much time on winter olympics web sites, M/M, Olympics AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 08:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4600209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinobara/pseuds/tsukinobara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared is favored for the gold in men's downhill, until he crashes and wrecks his chance.  Jensen tries to make him feel better about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gold Medal Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Winter Olympics Porn Sam/Dean and J2 Commentfic Meme](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/518391.html). Almost but not quite a response to [this prompt](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/518391.html?thread=16548343#t16548343), after I totally misread [this prompt](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/518391.html?thread=16541431#t16541431).

This is how Jared's downhill gold medal dream ends:

One minute he's flying down the slope, concentrating on the turns and the rises and the blue boundary marks on the snow, and the next he's hitting the ground, eating snow, slamming hard into the netting and bouncing right off it. And then he's just lying there, feeling his heart racing, trying to catch his breath, aware of the pain in his hip and his knee and his shoulder.

 _Shit_ , he thinks. And then, _Ow_.

He can hear noises, mostly wind but maybe even distant spectators, and then someone is calling his name and asking if he's ok. He blinks, looks around. There's a guy in a blue snowsuit, the Olympics' answer to the ski patrol, bending down and offering Jared a hand. Jared manages to get to his feet, the guy's hand on his back, and he skis slowly across the course and all the way down.

His knee throbs. His hip feels bruised, his shoulder, his pride. A couple of the other skiers who have made their runs and are waiting at the bottom of the course come up to him, offer sympathy, pat his arm, his back. They know what it's like to wipe out, to lose your momentum and your chances. And he appreciates their concern, but he doesn't want to talk to them. He doesn't want to talk to his parents or his sister or his brother, all of whom are no doubt watching at home, waiting with the rest of the country for his first medal run. They would have seen him wipe out. They would be waiting for him to call to tell them he's ok.

He doesn't want to talk to the reporter who sticks a microphone in his face and asks him how he's feeling, what it's like to be favored for the gold, to be the Golden Boy of American alpine skiing, such good runs during training, now having to sit back and watch another athlete stand on the podium and accept the medal that should have been his.

 _How am I feeling?_ he wants to answer. _I feel like shit. I fucked up._

He doesn't know quite what he did, because everything happened so fast, but he has a good idea that his spill was his own fault. And this isn't his only event, but it's his first, and he desperately wanted the gold. What does this mean for the super combined? It's the next event he qualified for and now that he's crashed and burned on the downhill, he needs that chance at an alpine medal. And downhill is half the combined.

He wants go to back to his room. He wants to sit in a hot tub, in a sauna, he wants a doctor to shoot him full of painkillers so he can do the one thing he crossed the world to do - win a gold medal.

One of Team USA's docs does look him over, pokes and prods him, tells him - stupidly - to take it easy, gives him a painkiller and a muscle relaxant and sends him on his way. He's banged up but not too badly. He'll be fine.

Well, he'll be fine once he gets over the fact that he screwed his first ever chance for a gold.

By the time he gets back to his room the adrenaline of the race and the fall has well and truly worn off and he's shaky and achy and just wants to lie down. His roommate the snowboarder is out, no doubt pursuing some hot, athletic sex with any one of the hot, athletic people in the Olympic Village. Jared is glad he's alone. He needs to shake off his funk. He'll take a nap and go out later, find his teammates, other skiers, maybe the bobsledder who was giving him the eye, and he'll compete in the combined and he'll win the god damned medal that he deserves.

But right now, he'll put on sweatpants and his UT hoodie, and he'll sleep.

Well, he'll take two steps towards his bed with the intent to sleep, but instead he'll be distracted by a knock on the door.

He opens the door and Jensen is standing there with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a bag that Jared hopes contains food, because he has suddenly realized that he's starving.

"How are you doing?" Jensen asks. "I didn't know what you might need, so I brought food _and_ drink just in case."

"I'm kinda stiff," Jared admits, "but I think I'm good."

"Are you gonna let me in?"

"Oh. Yeah." Jared scrubs a hand through his hair, embarrassed, and gestures for Jensen to come inside. He shouldn't be suddenly nervous about being alone with Jensen in his room, but he is.

Jensen is the one skier out of the entirety of Team USA who Jared looks up to. He was the Golden Boy of American alpine eight years ago at Torino, and the Comeback Kid in Vancouver after a spectacular crash and surgery that could have ended his career. They stood on the podium together in Vancouver, Jensen with his near-miraculous gold and Jared with his surprising bronze, and a disappointed but very gracious Norwegian taking home the silver.

And this year? Jensen's downhill wasn't fast enough to net him a medal, but he still has the super combined and the giant slalom, so he has a chance. If they're lucky, and Jared can keep his head and stay on his feet, they might stand on the podium together yet again.

Jensen hands Jared the bag as he walks past him into the room and sits on the bed. Jared shuts the door, opens the bag, peeks inside to find two ham and cheese sandwiches, a banana, a container of blueberry yogurt, a plastic spoon, and a round baked good of unknown national origin. He pulls out the mystery pastry and holds it up with a quizzical look.

"I don't know what it is," Jensen explains with a shrug. "The sign was in Cyrillic. I thought it looked good. If you don't like it you don't have to eat it."

Jared bites into it out of curiosity, and it tastes something like a cinnamon bun, but not as yeasty, and not as frosted. He licks his lips, finishes it off.

"I guess it was a good choice," Jensen says. He pats the mattress next to him. "I saw what happened. Are you ok?"

It takes Jared a minute to realize that Jensen must have seen a replay somewhere, because he wasn't there at the bottom of the slope when Jared finished his disastrous run. Every single athlete in the Olympic Village understands what it's like to fall during a competition, to screw up a chance at a medal or a title or a better ranking or even just the opportunity to compete. Few of them understand the peculiar and sometimes crushing pressure of being favored for an Olympic gold, of being a shining example and a popular face of their sport, but Jensen knows. Jensen was him, eight years ago. Jensen understands.

And Jensen brought him food and drink, knowing he wouldn't be ready to talk to anyone yet, to accept their condolences or their sympathy or their suggestions or their encouragement. Jared won't wallow for very long, he is too driven and at heart too cheerful to sulk for any length of time, but Jensen knows that while he doesn't quite want to be among his fellow athletes, much less his fellow skiers, he doesn't necessarily want to be alone.

Jared sits on the bed as well. He takes one of the sandwiches out of the bag and eats it in silence, thinking about what he wants to say, if he does indeed want to say anything. He puts the bag on the floor. After he's finished with the sandwich, Jensen cracks the seal on the vodka, screws off the cap, and hands the bottle to him to take the first swig. Jared takes a healthy swallow, chokes, coughs, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

"Shit," he croaks. "That's something else."

"But what, is the question," Jensen says, grinning. Jared takes another swallow, but this one goes down just as hard as the first. Vodka was never his drink, but beggars can't be choosers, and it might help him relax, soothe his muscles, calm his nerves.

He wishes Jensen had posted a faster time on the downhill. One of them should stand on the podium. And this will probably be Jensen's last Olympics, and he should finish with a medal.

"You looked great until - " Jensen starts to say, but he seems to realize where his thought is going and he stops. Jared hands him the vodka and he takes a sip, coughs, rubs his eyes. "Jesus, that's harsh. I should've found something better."

"No, it's ok. I think I need it." Jared takes it back, drinks some more, feels it heat his body and his brain, just as Jensen no doubt intended. He does feel more relaxed, looser, even with Jensen sitting so close to him.

Their paths cross at competitions, but they haven't spent so much time together, seen so much of each other, since Vancouver four years ago. They don't train together. They don't spend much time together in the off-season, although they consider themselves friends. Their lives are busy, and most of the time Jared does not mind, but they've seen so much of each other in Sochi that he has started to wish they could see that much of each other all the time. Jensen has always seemed like a mentor, an older brother, and when Jared won his first Olympic medal Jensen beamed with pride as if he'd won it himself. Jared feels close to Jensen, intimidated, attracted, admiring.

Jensen's face is very close to his, Jensen's mouth inviting and tempting. And then Jensen leans in and kisses Jared on the lips, and Jared, oddly relieved, kisses back.

He puts the vodka bottle down at some point and Jensen pushes him back onto the bed and they lie there, Jensen sprawled half across Jared's body, hands roaming across backs and shoulders, teeth biting, tongues tasting each other's mouths. Jared can still feel the stiffness and soreness in his muscles and his bones from his fall, his crash into the barrier netting, but the ache is dim now, distant. But he tenses when Jensen tugs at his hoodie, feeling the pull in his shoulder, and he makes a surprised, pained noise against Jensen's lips.

"Sorry, sorry," Jensen murmurs. "Help me."

Jared tries to sit up, fails, manages to struggle out of his hoodie anyway. Jensen pulls off his fleece, the henley underneath it, rolls onto his back, sits up, yanks off his boots. It takes no time from that until they're both naked and Jensen is gently brushing his fingers across the bruise on Jared's hip and surprisingly his shin where the top of his ski boot must have dug into his leg when he fell. Jensen touches Jared's face, his throat, his hair, eyes searching for something Jared doesn't know.

"I'm sorry," Jensen says again. "You had that run."

"I didn't. It had me."

He could say something else. He doesn't know what. He lifts his head, licks at Jensen's lips, pulls him into a deep, wonderful kiss.

Whatever else people might say about the accommodations in Sochi, the beds in the Olympic Village are very comfortable, the pillows are very soft, and the condoms are readily available. All Jared's pillows end up on the floor and a condom ends up on Jensen's dick before he drapes Jared's long legs over his broad shoulders and eases himself into Jared's eager body.

Jared has thought about this, about fucking Jensen, but everyone has. Jensen was the Golden Boy eight years before Jared, young and beautiful, strong legs and freckles and crinkles in the corners of his eyes when he smiled. He turns that smile on Jared now, confident, encouraging, as he wraps an arm around Jared's thigh as it rests against his side, and he starts to move.

They are both quiet but for their heavy breathing and an indrawn hiss when Jensen presses too hard against one of Jared's bruises. Jared feels every ache, every sore spot, every bruise he's ever had, and he knows Jensen is trying to be gentle but this feels like four years of sublimated desire finally given voice and he wouldn't stop even if he could. Jensen could pound him like the fists of an angry god, could drill him into the mattress like a pneumatic jackhammer, and he would welcome every bone-rattling, muscle-bruising thrust.

It doesn't take long, for all that they're both strong, highly trained athletes with a lot of stamina. Jensen lets Jared come first, and after his own climax and after he catches his breath, he slides Jared's legs off his shoulders, pulls out of Jared's ass, and flops down on the bed next to him. Jared sighs contentedly, his soreness a good soreness and his body relaxed. He feels more at peace than he has all day, since he stood at the top of the downhill run and waited for the signal to go.

He turns his head to see Jensen watching him calmly. "Thank you," he says.

"It was my pleasure," Jensen answers, his lips curving in the briefest of smiles.

"I think I needed that." Not just the sex, or the sandwiches and the vodka, but Jensen's care and understanding, and the dawning wonder that they must have felt the same way about each other for years, they just didn't know.

Jared brushes his lips across Jensen's. He wonders if his snowboarding roommate would change with Jensen, or if Jensen's roommate would change with him. He could get used to this.

"I can't stay long," Jensen says. "But long enough for a nap."

"I'm not that - " Jared's protest that he isn't that tired is interrupted by a yawn, and Jensen smiles at him indulgently. "I feel better. Not - I mean - I'll be stiff later - " Jensen chuckles and Jared swats him on the arm. "That's not what I meant. In my head. I'm ok. I can move on. I'm ready to kick ass and fucking own that course."

"I knew you would be. But you know this was about more than that." Jensen's face is serious. This close his eyes are very green and his freckles are fading into the flush still on his skin. Windburn, sunburn, not just the flush of arousal. Jared is struck by how pretty his features are.

"I know. Next time I want you to really pound my ass. After I win the gold I want you to fuck me hard. At least twice. I'll wear my medal."

Jensen blinks, taken aback. Jared grins brightly. Jensen laughs.

"Jesus, Jared, you _are_ ok." He leans in, kisses Jared on the mouth. "How about I wait until after the Super-G, so I can fuck you while you're wearing two medals?"

"Give me another fifteen minutes and you can fuck me now."

The mood is suddenly broken as his stomach growls and Jensen laughs again, a full-throated, delighted laugh that makes Jared want to kiss him all over, go down on him, make him laugh and moan and beg for mercy.

"Eat first," Jensen says, his laughter settling into a chuckle. Jared slides out of bed, stretches to feel the now-pleasant soreness in his muscles, and pulls his sweatpants back on before devouring the second sandwich, the banana, and the yogurt. Jensen likewise gets out of bed, gets dressed, and sits on the edge of the mattress. Jared resists the urge to lick the yogurt container.

"I really needed that," he says, tossing the lunch bag and the banana peel and the empty yogurt container in the trash can. He climbs back onto the bed and stretches out. Jensen looks down at him.

"Set your phone for half an hour," he says, "maybe forty minutes, for a nap. Then a short run before dinner and an early night."

"What are you, my coach?" Jared teases.

"This is probably my last Olympics." Jensen's voice is matter-of-fact. "So who knows."

"Really? You'd move to Colorado to train me?"

"Why not?"

Jared can't think of any argument against it. He can in fact think of two very good reasons for it. Jensen was the best professional alpine skier the US had to offer back when Jared could only watch from the sidelines, and Jared can still learn a lot from him.

And the second reason is simply that Jared has realized that he would like a life where he can see Jensen, and spend time with him, far more often than he does now. A life with Jensen, and the fastest, most exciting slopes he can conquer, is the life he wants.

And thus does Jared's second gold medal dream take shape, and it is a better, bigger dream than the one that died on the downhill that afternoon. It is a dream he can spend years realizing, even after the medals and the Olympic courses, after he and Jensen leave Sochi and go back to the States and resume their lives.

It is a good dream. It will be an even better reality.


End file.
